(no subject)

[_johnny]

summer of '79

The first time Johnny fell in love it was with another mutt like himself, Jess Mackenzie, whose daddy ran the drugstore and whose mama was a Korean war bride. Vietnam had covered pretty much their whole lives, had taken more than its share of local boys, so it wasn't hardly a day that went by without someone beating the shit outta Jess behind the bleachers, calling him gook and Charlie and leaving him to walk home wiping the blood from his nose and the tears from his beautiful black almond eyes.

Johnny wanted to say something, to do something, he wanted to... he wanted to. He just wanted to know what he wanted, and to not know the things he knew.

Sometimes Jess would look at him like he was saying something Johnny should understand, and Johnny would look back for as long as he dared, until one of them blinked and smiled and looked away.

The summer of '79 Johnny turned sixteen, and when he came home with his license his old man gave him the keys to the '64 Chevelle that'd been sitting in the shed for years on end; Johnny had stared in disbelief until his father shrugged and said a man needed a set of wheels. So Johnny spent every afternoon in the driveway, stripped to the waist and his long hair pulled back in a dirty piece of leather, tinkering and tweaking until he got the rusty old bitch singing for him. Mama would bring him lemonade while he worked, would brush her fingertips across the tattoo he'd gotten with her name on it, kiss his cheek and call him her big man.

He thought when he got the car looking better, when he was done with the Bondo and the Krylon, he'd take her someplace nice, like to the Atlas diner over the other side of the river. He'd got her a couple of pretty dresses last Mother's Day and she hadn't ever worn them yet, but when he asked her about it she said she'd been saving them for a special occasion, were too nice for everyday. He accepted that. He didn't want to say that it hurt his feelings, that he knew they were still in the boxes from Montgomery Ward, still with the tags on, in the bottom drawer of the big dresser.

In the summer of '79, Johnny practiced on his second-hand Gibson and taught himself all the chords to Stairway to Heaven, and when he'd got them down he tried his hand at some Clapton, raised up calluses and learned some Townshend, too. When his old man cuffed him and called him mama's boy, backhanded him and called him faggot, he just would shrug, crack his neck, go out and work on the car some more. He mopped floors at the Victory and spent his pay on spark plugs, hoses and belts, always left a little to give to Mama. She'd thank him and kiss him, and say she was proud, and that meant more than the money ever did.

And sometimes when he was out in the driveway, bent over the engine that was starting to purr instead of cough, he'd see Jess walking by, the laces of his Chucks dragging in the dust, his hands deep in the pockets of his faded jeans. Johnny would brace his arms on the edge of the open hood, would watch with his teeth grinding together to keep from calling out something he shouldn't.

Sometimes he thought his father would die if he knew that the things he accused Johnny of were true, and Johnny didn't feel a goddamn bit of guilt when he pictured it, pictured the old man turning red and then purple and dropping dead right there in the kitchen. He figured he could take care of Mama, and he figured they'd go out to California and she wouldn't have to take in sewing anymore, and things would be good.

Things would be good.

The summer got hotter and every time that Jess walked by they'd stare a little longer, smile a little wider, and Johnny would duck his head to hide it, turn so his hair fell down in his face, and one time he heard Jess laugh very quietly, but by the time he'd looked up, he was gone. Jess' laugh, his grin, the bare curve of the back of his neck... It made Johnny's dick hard and it made his guts twist; he'd lay in bed at night with his pillow over his face while he jerked off, trying to keep as quiet as possible. He'd walk home from work the long way in the evening, all the way by Jess' house, and sometimes he'd get lucky, sometimes he'd see Jess sitting out on the porch with his guitar, and sometimes he'd even wave.

Then one time he took the long way home on a sweaty Sunday afternoon in July, walked by McCall's boarded up old department store and in the little parking lot he seen Jess spread out like Jesus on the hood of Richie Cochrane's rust-colored Camaro. Tom Galatin and Benny Zwick were holding his arms while Richie pounded him, and Johnny knew, he goddamn fucking knew, he should keep walking.

It wasn't his business. He had his own bruises and scars, from stepping between the old man's fist and Mama's face, from being late home after work, from not cutting his hair, from just fucking... existing. He didn't need to add gettin' beat by the guys from school to it, he didn't need any more trouble than was already on his plate. He flexed empty and useless fists, he swallowed hard, he walked away.

He walked almost to the end of the street before turned around, before he went back up to McCall's parking lot, and he went in swinging.

After, when they were sitting in Johnny's bedroom, and Johnny had a dishrag full of ice cubes pressed to Jess' black eye, when they hadn't said anything beyond thanks and don't matter none for almost an hour, Johnny's own split lip puffy and throbbing, it was Johnny who finally broke the silence and said,

"Why don't you ever fight back?"

Jess shrugged, and looked away. "It's easier to just take it," he whispered, and it looked like he was going to cry again, so Johnny leaned in, and kissed him.

He didn't mean to kiss him. At least, he didn't think he did. He'd thought maybe he'd give him a hug, not too tight so's not to hurt already bruised ribs, and not too long so it didn't seem like more than just comfort, but Johnny's hands went to Jess' shoulders instead of around his back, and Johnny's mouth turned and pressed to Jess' instead of turning politely away. Johnny kissed Jess the way he'd kiss a girl, soft with a little swipe of tongue, and Jess made a noise that wasn't like any girls had ever made before, an open-mouthed, deep-from-guts noise.

Suddenly, it wasn't like a girl kiss at all.

Suddenly, suddenly it was like all the heat of the July sun was bottled up in the pit of his stomach, and the more they clutched at each other, hands and hair and hips, the more spit and teeth and tongue that clashed together, the hotter that sun burned. When they shook and grunted and came, one after another, Johnny could only stare, panting and sweating and with a mess in his pants; he stared at Jess and said, "Whoa."

And Jess laughed.

Took all of a minute for Johnny to catch on, for him to get over the sting of the first giggle and realize how fuckin' ridiculous this was, the whole thing, and they couldn't stop once they got started, laughing and kissing and kissing and laughing, howling with it until they couldn't breathe, could only prop each other up and gasp and shake.

It was perfect.

They had to be careful, of course, had to keep things quiet, secret, on the down-low, had to touch each other every chance they got, and damn there were close calls, Johnny's mama coming downstairs from the sewing room too quietly, or Jess' daddy coming home from the store too early, but they covered good, they covered fast, they were light on their feet, they were young and in love.

Love, yeah, Jess said it first on a humid August night, down by the river, down under the old railroad bridge, drinking cans of beer that Jess had lifted from the cooler in his old man's store. Jess' mouth tasted sour with yeast and alcohol, and Johnny pressed him hard against the damp stones of the bridgework and Jess said I love you when he came in Johnny's hand.

"Yeah?" Johnny breathed, rocking against Jess' hipbone; he pulled his fingers free of Jess' open fly and wiped them on Jess' jeans.

"Yeah," Jess agreed, panting a little but he never looked away.

"Yeah," Johnny said back, and his heart in his chest felt like a firefly in a Mason jar, like it was trying to break out, like it was trying to glow.

Love. Yeah.

Jess started to come by during the day, they'd work on the car and they'd grabass a little, try not laugh too loud so's not to wake up the old man, sleeping before his three-to-eleven, and Johnny made sure Jess was gone by the time Johnny's father came down the back steps, lunch pail in one hand, his hat tucked into the crook of his elbow.

They'd nod at each other, and Johnny wouldn't move, wouldn't breathe, until the trail of dust left by his father's tires had settled again on the road. He'd leave his tools and go inside, check on Mama, and sometimes she was all right. Sometimes she was standing there at the sink, spitting red into the white porcelain, and she'd say, "Don't worry, my big man," in that soft soft voice of hers while Johnny shook with futile rage. "Just you worry about yourself."

She knew. She knew everything. She knew but she never said, never had too, would just tuck Johnny's hair back behind his ears, smooth her thumb over his cheekbones, her small black eyes sad and heavy with things she could never put on her tongue. She knew and Johnny knew she didn't understand, but he could feel his mother's love and fear in every word. Just you worry about yourself. I can't protect you.

At first they were too scared to go beyond kisses and touches, fumbling handjobs and near-frantic humping; neither of them knew what the hell they were doing except that it was terrifying and hot and that they couldn't seem to stop. They talked about going further, they snickered and giggled when they tried to figure out how it'd work, and the one time Jess went down on Johnny, Johnny was so shocked that he came in about two-tenths of a second so they didn't try that again.

They talked about the future, too, they talked about what would happen when school started up again after Labor Day, they talked about what would happen when they graduated, they talked about their plans and dreams and their visions. Jess showed Johnny his poems with shy eyes, said he hoped he made good enough grades to go to college somewhere far away, like Boston or New York, said he wanted to try to be a poet like Ginsberg or Ferlinghetti, said he wanted to be the first Korean from Kentucky to win a Pulitzer Prize.

When they talked about the future Jess always said I wish, I want and Johnny always said I will, I am. I will leave for California as soon as I got enough money saved. California, gonna be in a band, maybe, or be in movies, don't matter. I'm going, and nothing's gonna stop me. Johnny would pace back and forth under the bridge, waving his hands while he talked, his cigarette dangling precariously from his lip. And Jess just nodded and smiled, Jess just shrugged and agreed and asked if he'd see Johnny tomorrow.

Summer was fading fast by the time Johnny finally got the Chevelle in good enough shape to pass inspection, and that day he and his father drove it up to the courthouse to get the tags, silent the whole time until they stepped out into the bright yellow afternoon, onto the sidewalk littered with loitering men with the same haircut as his old man.

"See that?" his father said, and pointed to the car; Johnny ducked his head, stuffed his hands in his pockets. There were nods and yessirs from the assembly. "See that there vehicle, that piece of shit hadn't run since 1973, and my boy here's worked on it every goddamn day since June. Lookin' pretty good, huh?"

In all Johnny's whole life his father had never once said I'm proud of you. He'd never once said You done good. And taking praise from a man like J.C. Depp was like saying thank you for every broken rib, every black eye, every drop of blood, but when his father clapped him on the back and held him there, for the approval of his friends, Johnny nodded and grinned anyway.

For a half hour in the summer of '79, everything was right.

That night, parked down by the river, Jess wriggled out of his jeans and sweet talked Johnny out of his, and that night on the backseat of Johnny's car they figured out how it worked, and that night the world ended in a brilliant strobe light bursts behind Johnny's eyelids when he came whispering Jess' name.

It was plenty past curfew when Johnny slipped in the back door through the kitchen, knees still a little weak, his clothes and his skin reeking of smoke and beer and fucking. The old man was sat at the table, his hat and his badge and his gun laid out neat, and if there was one thing Johnny'd learned in 16 years on this earth, it was that the way his father was twisting that big old Freemason's ring meant he was in shit deep.

"I- I- I- I'm sorry I'm I'm I'm... late," Johnny stammered, his hands going automatically behind his back. He breathed in through his nose, clamped his mouth shut. It'd only be worse if he tried to defend himself.

"It ain't that," J.C. said calmly, levering himself up out of his chair, and Johnny sucked in his stomach, bracing for it. "It ain't the fact that it's one-thirty in the goddamn morning and your mama's been worried sick."

The first slap didn't do more than sting and snap Johnny's head to the side. He stepped back, away, and the cold screen of the door met his shoulders with a slam.

"How long you been lying to me?" his father asked, still in that deceptively level tone, and Johnny's guts twisted. He could feel himself starting to sweat, the hot prickle down the back of his neck.

"I- I- I- don't know what you're- you're talking about, sir," he answered.

Pain blossomed behind Johnny's left eye; his teeth ground together.

"I'm talking about you and Bill Mackenzie's little Chink bastard, John, I'm talking about you sucking his little yellow cock. Don't lie to me, boy, how long've you been making a fool of your mama and me? How long?"

He didn't, couldn't answer, with his mouth full of blood and the next backhand coming before he could brace for it. He counted to four, and felt his father's ring slice across his cheekbone. He gagged, felt something hot running down his chin, could be anything, blood, snot, spit. Behind his back, he clenched his fists around the chain that kept the door from opening too far, gripping it tight for balance.

"How long, John? How long? You been sneaking around with that little faggot all summer? All year? How long?"

In his mind, in the safe place under the pain, he could hear himself screaming back, Does it matter? Does it matter when or who or how long? Does it matter 'cause now you know what you always said is really true, your son's a cocksucker, your son's a faggot, and you can kill me here and now but you'll never change me, you son of a bitch, you'll never change me. Johnny struggled to keep upright, to keep his hold on the chain, watching his father's flat and unchanging expression through eyes already starting to swell shut; he swallowed blood and didn't speak.

"What kind of fool do you take me for? You think I don't know nothing? You think you could get away with this?"

It didn't matter how he found out, it didn't matter who saw, who told, maybe it was headed this way from the day Johnny was born. Maybe it was destiny. He could feel the chain cutting into his palms, and the next punch drove all the air from his chest.

"What do you have to say for yourself, son? Come on, speak up, be a fucking man for once in your life. What do you have to say?"

Johnny found breath and strength, drew himself up and looked his father in the eye for the last time. "Nothing. I got nothing to say to you."

He'd never once raised a hand in his own defense, not one time, but Johnny took his best shot that night. He swung with everything he had, a clean hard right to the old man's jaw. J.C. swung back; Johnny went down and he didn't get up again.

:::

Everything hurt, even the sun on his skin hurt, his mother's gentle fingers on his brow hurt, the sound of her voice hurt. "Wake up, my big man, come on, come back to me."

It hurt to blink, too, to focus on Mama's face, tear-streaked and frightened.

"I got you to bed, I let you rest," she said, "but you gotta get up now, it's three-thirty. Your... your daddy's gone to work."

Johnny nodded, and the small motion was exhausting. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and he hated the tears that were suddenly burning down his cheeks, stinging in the cuts and scrapes. He pushed himself up, still in his jeans and shirt from the night before, aching all the way down to the bone.

His mother sat on the edge of the bed, turning something over and over in her hands, and Johnny squinted and focused. It was money, a fold of bills in a rubber band.

"Mama, what-"

She pressed the money into his hand, closed his fingers on it. "That's all your money you gived me from work, and some of my sewing money, too. It's almost five hundred dollars."

"No-" Johnny shook his head, tried to hand it back to her and she slapped his face; he recoiled, more shocked than hurt, but hurt just the same.

"You listen to me, John. You get your things, and you get your car, and you go. You go as far as you can as fast as you can, and you don't look back, you hear me?"

He shook his head again, looked down at the money in his hand. She'd been saving it all this time. Like the dresses, for a special occasion. Johnny's stomach clenched. "Why?" he whispered.

"So you'll have a chance," she said simply.

And Johnny couldn't help it, he took the long way out of town, and sure as hell there was Jess, scuffing along the sidewalk like every other day that summer. Jess didn't see him, and Johnny took his foot off the gas, thought for about ten seconds about California, about Jess' wishes and Johnny's plans, but when he got to the end of the street he kept going.

At the town line he looked back just once, and then never again.